


my hands no longer an afterthought

by nikeforova



Series: fire lord zuko; princess azula [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: M/M, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, Zuko Needs a Hug, and therapy but don't worry he's going, brief mention of yue and the rest of the gaang, but focuses heavily on sokka and his thoughts about zuko, introspection time, obligatory ozai/zuko comparison fic, yes he has trust issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25505785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikeforova/pseuds/nikeforova
Summary: They meditate sometimes together, Sokka knows.Zuko always starts with the same phrase, said softly, as if he is making an offering: Fire comes from the breath, Azula.It is so fragile, but it is warm.He saw them once, larger hands cupping the softer ones, coaxing a flame to stay in the stillness of the palace. Zuko had slipped from their bed hours before the sun would rise. And there it was: a tiny flicker of bright blue in the barely-there light, struggling to stay alive in a palace full of red, orange, yellow—anything but blue, says a tiny voice in his head. He knows how it stings—he still prefers to dress in his blues, too.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: fire lord zuko; princess azula [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1847761
Comments: 31
Kudos: 168





	my hands no longer an afterthought

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Crush, written by Richard Siken. It directly inspired the line "I'm sorry I left my corpse in your dreams." This isn't nearly as heavy, and it's meant to end somewhat happily, or at least hopefully.

The humid, suffocating heat never stops in Caldera.

It simply never stops. It's a given, like the rising of the moon—Yue, Sokka greets her—or the existence of the avatar, or the mountains in the Earth Kingdom.

Even the turtleducks are silent right now. Something raw and tectonic has split a fault, somewhere. Animals always know these things.

There are many givens, thinks Sokka. Givens like his inevitable irritation with the unbearable humidity that seems to be completely inescapable, givens like his hands tremble when he reaches for Zuko while he cries, and cries, and cries, and givens like the space he knows Zuko needs right now.

They fought earlier, and there was so much anger, so much shouting, and they both said the unforgivable. There are so many things that are beautiful about the boy that when he is ugly, it makes the world stop spinning. There are apologies to be given, and yet:

_I'm sorry I left my corpse in your dreams._

There are many givens when it comes to Zuko, and one of them is that there are so many dreams. There's a child with a scar in there somewhere, and so many dead ones, and so many attempts at love that they must be piled up like the books in their room—how would they fit any other way?

There are many givens:

There is a softness in Zuko's eyes when he talks about Azula that makes Sokka want to cry, to tremble, to turn in on himself and collapse in a controlled demolition. There is something to it, Zuko's refusal to yield, and his insistence to keep on pressing kindness into the folds of Azula's hands. It comes steadily, as true and unthreatened as the rise and fall of a chest.

They meditate sometimes together, Sokka knows.

Zuko always starts with the same phrase, said softly, as if he is making an offering: Fire comes from the breath, Azula. 

It is so fragile, but it is warm.

He saw them once, larger hands cupping the softer ones, coaxing a flame to stay in the stillness of the palace. Zuko had slipped from their bed hours before the sun would rise. And there it was: a tiny flicker of bright blue in the barely-there light, struggling to stay alive in a palace full of red, orange, yellow—anything but blue, says a tiny voice in his head. He knows how it stings—he still prefers to dress in his blues, too.

He knows that the sting will never go away, and that is why Zuko is there. What hurts more? To know the song of the sun will never thrum through your veins again, or to know that when you sing it your voice is blue?

This hurts to think about, this one.

There is power in Zuko's hands, the hands that have touched Sokka so gently, that he has let cradle his face, whispering _I trust you. I know you, and you know me, and you will not burn me._

Zuko is not just a boy, and Sokka knows this, and he is so young, so small, but they both know that fire is alive, hungry, dangerous, and he can summon it like he has been its friend forever.

(Zuko was not born to win, but he _was_ born to fight.)

(Nowadays, he wins anyways).

Sokka knows a lot of things: The formal Kai chamber had been empty for months anyways, and the knowledge should be terrifying—unmatched power, at least in his one's own kingdom, has never worked out in the history books—but it doesn't. The Agni Kai had ended quickly, almost as quickly as it had started: A comment that was vile, and disgusting, and had been sneered, and Sokka was burning because _he was a child, you fucking bastard, he was a child._

He was right next to Zuko, terrified, watching him breathe deep, his fire and—it was over, and not once had Zuko's hand shaken, and the man left quietly, still alive

 _still alive,_ the palace staff whispered 

_still alive,_ the kingdom whispered back 

_still alive,_ the streets sang 

and uninjured, except for the small burn that Zuko left on his elbow

 _as small as could be_ , Zuko whispered

 _as small as could be,_ Sokka whispered

 _as small as could be,_ the word rang

and that was that.

Except it wasn't, and they were fighting, and Sokka was screaming because _I can't even bend, Zuko, fuck, you know that_ and they were shouting at each other and his chest hurt because _I shouldn't ever be your second don't you ever dare put me in there again_ _I would have forfeited in a minute and you know it and then we would have lost_ and _I had it handled, didn't I_?

And he did, and it was about to spill out of his mouth but then Zuko was crying, and saying brokenly, hands up,

_your second has to be somebody you trust_

(with your life)

 _and you know that Aang is gone, and Katara is with him, and Toph is in the Earth Kingdom and I didn't know what to do and I'm sorry_

(those words are his undoing).

But here is a given: when Zuko talks to the children in the palace ( _beautiful, Maru, you're getting so much better)_ or sits at the table to try again ( _I'm sorry, Minister, could you rephrase that?)_ or quietly runs through forms with Aang _(inhale, exhale)_ or reaches up to the sky in the morning _(still)_ his hands only speak of colors too big for his body, too big for Ozai to even touch. Zuko bleeds kindness everywhere as if he has never known what it is like to keep it inside, and Sokka knows that for Zuko, fire is not the only thing that comes from the breath. The moon is still out there, and there's a figure by the pond that Sokka can see through the window, a tiny orange flame out there somewhere.

It is so much more than being able to win.

 _he is great,_ the streets whisper with the sunrise, and they have never been wrong before, but just this once—

 _lord zuko is good,_ corrects Sokka.

**Author's Note:**

> this was just me taking every thought i've had about zuko and mixing it in a blender after removing some canon bits that i didn't want skdjghskdjghs
> 
> thank you for reading! you can find me on twitter @lovepo3ms


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